"I can never tell ahead of time which book will give me trouble - some balk every step of the way, others seem to write themselves - but certainly the mechanics of writing, finding the time and the psychic space, are easier now that my children are grown"
About this Quote
Tyler turns the romantic myth of authorship into something sturdier: a job with temperamental materials and a schedule that can be wrecked by life. The first move is plainspoken uncertainty, almost stubbornly anti-glamour. She refuses the writer-as-oracle pose; she’s a craftsperson admitting she can’t predict which project will cooperate. That “balk” is telling. Books aren’t vessels for inspiration so much as mule-ish companions, dragging their feet, forcing you to negotiate every sentence. When a book “seems to write itself,” it’s not magic so much as alignment: voice, structure, and momentum clicking into place.
Then she slips in the real subject: the hidden logistics of creativity. “Mechanics” sounds like a demotion until she pairs it with “psychic space,” a phrase that quietly expands the battlefield from calendar management to mental occupancy. The subtext is that parenting doesn’t just consume hours; it colonizes attention. Even when you’re technically alone, you’re still on call in your own head. Tyler’s insight isn’t that children prevent art, but that they compete with the sustained inwardness long-form fiction demands.
Context matters: Tyler built a career writing novels obsessed with domestic interiors, the minute weather of family life. She’s not blaming that material; she’s naming its cost. There’s also a late-career candor here, a permission slip for artists (especially women) to say: I didn’t lack discipline, I lacked uninterrupted selfhood. The line lands because it treats “time” and “psyche” as equally finite resources, and because it admits the messy truth that art is often made not in bursts of genius, but in the quiet that arrives after everyone else no longer needs you.
Then she slips in the real subject: the hidden logistics of creativity. “Mechanics” sounds like a demotion until she pairs it with “psychic space,” a phrase that quietly expands the battlefield from calendar management to mental occupancy. The subtext is that parenting doesn’t just consume hours; it colonizes attention. Even when you’re technically alone, you’re still on call in your own head. Tyler’s insight isn’t that children prevent art, but that they compete with the sustained inwardness long-form fiction demands.
Context matters: Tyler built a career writing novels obsessed with domestic interiors, the minute weather of family life. She’s not blaming that material; she’s naming its cost. There’s also a late-career candor here, a permission slip for artists (especially women) to say: I didn’t lack discipline, I lacked uninterrupted selfhood. The line lands because it treats “time” and “psyche” as equally finite resources, and because it admits the messy truth that art is often made not in bursts of genius, but in the quiet that arrives after everyone else no longer needs you.
Quote Details
| Topic | Writing |
|---|
More Quotes by Anne
Add to List
